


The Night Before the Morning After

by dragonofdispair



Series: Morning [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: (Spike focused chastity), (doms need aftercare too), (is that a thing?), (it is now~♪), (watch them use their words!), Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Chastity Device, Condoms, Contraception, Crying, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Electricity, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Flashbacks, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Knotting, M/M, Master/Pet, Molestation, Orgasm Denial, Orgasming With Alternate Non-Impregnating Fluids, Past Sexual Assault, Past/Referenced Abuse of Police Power, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-War, Punishment, Rape Roleplay, References to Eggpreg, Rough Sex, Safewords, Semi-Improvised Dildo, Sex Pictures, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Shock Prod, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Talking, Threesome, Transformers Spike Mods, Vaginal Sex, Worldbuilding, criminal/cop, pain play, shock collar, spiked penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Just… so much porn. This time from Ricochet’s POV.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl, Prowl/Ricochet
Series: Morning [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553491
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	The Night Before the Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Still not that prostitution roleplay Ricochet wanted. He’s not complaining though... 
> 
> _**Read the tags**_ though. There are references to past sexual assault by a police officer, and even some short flashbacks. Be safe.
> 
> Beta’d by Rizobact

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# Prologue

.

.

.

Ricochet knew Prowl was a masochist. _Total_ masochist. He’d only needed to be the surprise participant in his twin’s little games once to see that. Before that, though, he’d thought Prowl fit the cop mold perfectly. He’d been arrested enough to know the culture. He listened to the gossip while he was being processed. 

Enforcers were aggressive mechs. Dominant, and aggressively so. They were _programmed_ to enjoy the chase, the catch. Literally programmed; like most jobs that required a specific attitude or mindset, there were software patches involved. For that reason alone, Prowl (whatever his other inclinations) was guaranteed to get off on dominating a partner. On the power his position granted him. Frag, Ricochet had been on the receiving end of that more than once. Not from Prowl, but playing the helpless prey then taking advantage of the afterglow had gotten him out of a few scrapes. Seeing Prowl be the one trussed up like a present, begging to be fragged, and just _handed_ to Ricochet to do the deed by his own mate was the _last thing_ he’d expected.

He’d rolled with it though. He’d be lying if he said it hadn’t crossed his mind in the moment that he was the one taking from the Enforcers — in the form of the trussed-up Prowl — just like they’d taken from him. It wasn’t a thought he was proud of, especially in hindsight, but he’d had it. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to treat the _submissive_ he was with ethically.

Not knowing what arrangements had, or hadn’t, been made to protect Prowl from getting sparked, Ricochet hadn’t even considered sticking his spike in Prowl’s valve. Not without a condom, and given the state Prowl’d been in when Jazz had sent Ricochet in there, he hadn’t wanted to break the mood to ask where the vinyls were hidden. But siring a sparkling on your twin’s conjunx was just tacky, even if they’d been the ones to rope him into the whole situation in the first place! He’d thought... Well, Prowl couldn’t conceive from the aft-port, and Ricochet figured that _when_ Prowl called red to keep his virgin aft virgin then he could take advantage of the break to ask where the Primus-damned condoms were!

Enforcers weren’t mechs who took it up the aft. Suggesting it to one was a good way to get a baton shoved up _his_ aft then have the shock setting pulsed a few times. _Hopefully_ with it set on stun. 

They weren’t mechs who cried. 

Uncharitably, Ricochet had thought Prowl couldn’t. He’d wondered what Jazz had seen in the emotionless Praxan. What he’d heard in that monotone voice.

Well, he knew better now.

It had been beyond weird to hear how Prowl’s already less than expressive intonation became even uniform as he broke down and actively sobbed. To learn that, rather than an indication that Prowl was donning a cold, frosty, unfeeling mask, it was a sign that he was stressed and losing control. 

_Praxan accent,_ Jazz had called it, and as soon as he’d gotten home, Ricochet had run a search on YouView for Praxus-based content creators, clicked on the first result, and it was like having an epiphany even though Jazz had _just_ told him. They all did it. It wasn’t quite a true monotone, but it took him nearly three joors of listening to different speakers to get used to the minimized intonation and hear it. 

Definitely something to know and keep in mind next time. Because there would be a next time. Jazz had shown up at the aft-crack of dawn this morning with an invitation to spend the weekend at their flat, a box of toys, and a briefing packet. Ricochet would have rolled his optics if he’d had them.

Flipping through the box’s contents, Ricochet picked up a collection of hard, blunt rubber barbs and circuitry and let it dangle from his fingers. “Really?”

“He’s been talking about them,” Jazz said simply, retrieving the instruction booklet that went with them. “Going on about how much he’d forgotten he liked the studded condoms and wouldn’t it be nice if the barbs were as big as he imagined...” 

“So why don’t you wear it?”

“When I ask about spike mods, he talks about knots or ovipositors,” Jazz snickered. “And then when he brings up the barbs himself and I ask about _me_ wearing them, he changes the subject. I think he wants you and won’t admit it.”

Ricochet snorted and took a closer look at the toy. It was one of those that straddled the line between being a slip-on toy and a full-on mod. It’d plug into his spike housing so he could control the orientation of the barbs and get tactile feedback from them. It even had a canister of “alternative” fluid to inject either into his transfluid or as an alternative to it when he orgasmed. So theoretically, there should be no need for a condom, which was good because Ricochet was one-hundred percent certain it’d just tear through any vinyl made. But unlike a true mod, he could put it on and remove it without the help of a surgeon. 

“I’ll try it on and see if I enjoy how it feels,” he promised, but, “If _I_ can’t get off wearing it, he’s slag out of luck.”

“Fair,” Jazz conceded. 

Ricochet snatched the manual out of his twin’s hands and set the whole apparatus aside. He’d try it out alone later. He didn’t need a chaperone for that. For a moment, he imagined surprising Smokescreen with the new toy. The gambler could be pretty kinky sometimes too. But no, he didn’t know how the Praxan-lookalike would react, and it’d be rude to use Prowl’s toy on someone else without permission. Even if Prowl didn’t know it existed yet. “You go with the knot or the ovipositor?”

“Knot.” Jazz dug through the box of toys, pulling things out for Ricochet’s perusal. “It was cheaper, and we’re on a budget for this stuff. Let me know if there’s anything you want to see and maybe use this weekend.”

Grunting an affirmative, Ricochet poked through the selection of fake spikes, restraints, and different kinds of impact toys. This had always been more Jazz’s jazz, though Ricochet still knew just as much as he did about the lifestyle. Nothing caught his optic until…

“This,” Ricochet said, picking up the baton. It didn’t look exactly like a police baton, but it was the same general size and shape and, unlike a lot of purely kinky things, it was hefty enough to knock a mech around a bit for real. He fiddled with the controls, getting it to turn on with a hum. Of course, it lacked the lethal setting real weapons had, but he made sure it was turned down to its lowest one before touching the business end. 

_**FZZZT-CRACK!!**_ it went, much louder and more dramatic than a real Enforcer baton did. He barely felt the shock, but he still couldn’t help but flinch from the pain his mind insisted accompanied that sound. His cables tensed and his sparkpulse quickened.

Hadn’t Ricochet just been thinking about police batons? He wondered if Prowl would be willing to take it up the aft or be fragged with it at all. Ricochet would even settle for him sucking on it. He felt tight and eager and vindictive at the thought… 

_She kicked his legs apart to throw him further off balance and slammed him face down on the hood of the prisoner transport. He heard the hum of the weapon set to full strength as it pressed against his neck, pinning him with it. If she decided to shock him, the thought ran through a processor already numb with fear, he was dead._

_”Shut up and stop wiggling,” she hissed. He heard the weapon discharge, thankfully in the air next to his audio and not directly against his neck. Ricochet froze, and she chuckled. “Good mech.” She pressed her overheated frame against his cold one and petted his side possessively. She groped the seams in his armor, almost as if by accident as she went for her cuffs but he could feel the arousal in her EM field. Inspiration struck him._

_”I can think of something more fun than arresting me,” Ricochet offered. He opened up his modesty plating and rubbed the dry entrance of his valve against her scalding hot spike panel. He tried to will himself to lube up for her. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” Come on, he thought. Take it._

_She hesitated, then Ricochet felt her panel slide open._

_”If you tell anyone about this…” she threatened, setting off the baton again, right next to his audio. He flinched, and couldn’t help but let out a strangled cry of fear. Her spike extended right into his offered valve._

_”Won’t,” he gasped, trying to act like he was enjoying this. He wasn’t stupid._

“I’ll just keep this for a few cycles,” he decided, shaking away the memory.

Jazz gave him a _look._ “Anything else?”

“Just whatever you guys’d normally do,” Ricochet said, subspacing the baton. “Take your slag and get out of here. I got stuff to do today.”

Like work.

The barbed spike mod and the instruction booklet were both still waiting on his berth, right where he’d left them when he got home the next morning and flopped down on them. With a growl, he dug them out and dropped them where he could glare at them.

Right. He needed to deal with those. 

It wasn’t like ending his cycle (he refused to think of this as beginning his cycle until he’d slept at least a joor) with a spot of self-servicing was a chore though. He read through the instructions then sat up to get the thing on him. 

This wasn’t arousing, so he had to open his panel and extend his spike manually. Then he made sure the net of insulated myomer wires, servos, tubes, and rubber barbs was oriented just like in the pictures and slid it over his spike. It wasn’t a snug fit, but that was okay. It was supposed to tighten up once it was hooked in. Some of the barbs were in odd positions, so he spent some time straightening them and making sure the magnets clamped them all to his spike in the right spots. Then, because he wanted to test out if he could get off using the transfluid alternative system and the ink Jazz had picked out, he plugged a cartridge of that stuff in too, switching it into the on position, even though it wasn’t plugged in yet.

Probing around, Ricochet eventually found his array’s medical data port and hooked the mod in. A microtransformation triggered, sheathing the connection. Electricity flowed into the toy, tightening it snugly around his spike and deploying gold magnetic clamps all along every wire to hold it against the metal so they wouldn’t tangle or snag. That locked the tubing in place. All the barbs stood straight up and a weird, indescribable _sensation_ arced into him. 

That hadn’t felt good, but it was strange and overwhelming and _right on his spike_ and Ricochet was certainly aroused _now._

His spike looked like an alien torture device though. He was supposed to be able to— 

All the barbs folded down, back toward his spike housing. Their rounded backs made rows of textured bumps on his spike that were still intimidating but looked more like something someone would want inside them. Experimentally, Ricochet cupped his hands over the now _very_ textured head and squeezed, pulling toward him like he was thrusting into something tight. 

“Oooaaa...” Oh yeah. The toy’s sensors were transmitting the touch to his own neural net just fine. He felt the difference, sure, but it felt like _him,_ not like servicing a false spike.

The barbs were twitching and wriggling like cilia and Ricochet thought about what they were supposed to be doing inside a valve: expanding out to catch the lining, scraping against the mech’s sensors. Making ~~Prowl~~ his partner scream in pleasure and pain... and the barbs responded, settling into a thirty-ish degree angle that allowed him to stroke down his spike — “entering” the tight space between his hands — but made it difficult to stroke back up. The barbs caught against his fingers hooked around them and kept it from being a smooth glide. Far from being un-pleasurable, Ricochet found the way the sensors inside the barbs were stimulated by the jerky, uneven movements extremely arousing. 

He tweaked the end of one of the barbs and gasped. He hadn’t expected them to have sensors all the way to the tips. 

Okay, enough dry-humping his hands. Ricochet stood, letting his terrifyingly spiky spike jut out like a weapon and made his way to the shower. Time to put this thing through its paces.

.

.

.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

# The Night Before the Morning After

.

.

.

Prowl’s trepidation morphed into relief, and then realization and distress and Ricochet licked his lips. He stepped into Jazz and Prowl’s apartment and closed the door behind him, crowding into Prowl’s personal space. He stroked the chain, its lock, and the two tags around Prowl’s neck. He knew what they both said, but he fingered them until he found the one he wanted and flipped it over to read it again while Prowl’s optics went as wide and round as his hubcaps. 

Ricochet grinned. “Hello, Pet.” 

“Hi,” Prowl squeaked.

He raked his optical band over Prowl’s frame. He was wearing a second collar, but this one looked like a plastic shock collar instead of the comfortable restraint he’d been wearing last time. The battery pack was heavier than the rest of the collar and weighted the whole thing so that it hung in front, pressing the discharge diodes against his throat. He didn’t seem to be wearing any other restraints (yet), but there were clips installed on his wrists and ankles for easily restraining him later, and all of his modesty plating was open. Forced open, Ricochet bet, or else he would have closed his panels to answer the door. 

A faint sheen of lubricant glimmered over Prowl’s crotch and Ricochet stepped forward, pushing Prowl up against the wall while the Praxan averted his optics and whined in stress, and groped him, running his claws between the plush, slick valve lips. Very slick. And it was a needy, engaged ring of calipers that met his probe at the entrance of his valve and clenched around his fingers, not a tiny opening fluttering with want. That wasn’t just a little arousal from the embarrassment of being forced to open the door with his panels open. Not even if he obviously hadn’t expected it to be Ricochet waiting for him.

“I see Jazz didn’t wait for me,” he commented, stroking gently. “Has he overloaded in you yet, Pet?”

Squeezing his optics closed like he wished he was anywhere but here, being molested by someone he… actually, Ricochet didn’t know how Prowl felt about him anymore, but he knew that he was at the very least still a lowlife, a criminal. A lowlife and a criminal _molesting_ a cop. He didn’t dare push his claws in where he might cut the delicate mesh, but he ran his fingers over the entrance, gathering the lubricant, then pushed in with two of his knuckles. It was an easy fit for just two; Jazz had definitely had his spike in there. Ricochet had probably interrupted them.

Prowl shook his head. Ricochet wasn’t sure if it was answering his question or trying to tell him to stop. 

“Good.” Ricochet let his spike extend, but kept tight control of the mod so that the barbs stayed flush(ish) against his spike, creating the rows of textured bumps rather than the field of barbs. Later. When Prowl could appreciate what was about to go inside him. Rubbing himself to encourage full extension, he pushed the switch that would let him orgasm with his own transfluid. He paused to roll a vinyl — one of his own, no studs — on, softening the texture even more.

Prowl was shivering. He looked mortified and afraid as Ricochet mechhandled him into a good position, lifting his leg and fitting their pelvises together so the wall would take Prowl’s weight when Ricochet started thrusting. This was not the reaction he was used to getting from his lovers, but… _Prowl._ Still, he pinged the mech’s comsuite for a safeword before continuing. 

Embarrassment and mortification spiked in the mech’s EM field. _Green._

“Good thing Jazz’s prepared you for me,” Ricochet murmured, thrusting into Prowl’s valve in a single, hard stroke. 

Prowl arched against the wall with a cry. 

“You didn’t even try to stop me,” Ricochet said conversationally, setting a hard, dizzying pace that would push those rows of bumps through tight calipers. Calipers that clutched around him fitfully, unsure what to do about the strange, novel object being forced into them. Of course, Prowl would have ridden more strangely shaped false spikes, but those were at his own pace, not the dominating pace Ricochet demanded, and Prowl clutched at his shoulders, wiggling. “I walk in and a klik later you’re writhing on my spike, being used. _Slut.”_

And Ricochet really was just using him, at least right now. He didn’t bother tweaking or stroking to arouse. He just pounded the mech’s valve, chasing his own overload as quickly as possible. Right now, for this first one, he didn’t even care if Prowl got off from it. 

Prowl was shaking his head again. Ricochet wasn’t sure what part of this he was trying to deny, or if he was just trying to dislodge the words in general, but he wasn’t about to let him block any of this out. 

“Jazz is going to be so mad I got to his toy before he did,” Ricochet hissed between his own labored panting. His thrusts were becoming erratic. He was close. He grunted. “Fragger never did like to be second. Well, I’m going to frag his conjunx raw and show _him_ who’s second. You like that, Pet? Just a toy I can use to put my brother in his place.” Prowl buried his face against Ricochet’s neck. He couldn’t tell if the mech was crying yet, but it didn’t matter. “I’m almost— ”

Ricochet’s shout echoed through the house. He overloaded, squirting transfluid deep into the mech’s valve. Prowl continued to squirm, wiggling on his spike as Ricochet pinned him to the wall which prolonged the overload.

His cables relaxed slowly, and Ricochet withdrew despite the whimpered protest and let Prowl slide to the ground. The Praxan really was shuddering now, whimpering in frustrated arousal along with the shame. He was close to his own overload, but Ricochet still stepped away. He shucked the condom off his spike and tied it in a knot to contain the mess. He’d toss that on his way through the kitchen.

“No! Please! I’m still—” Prowl gasped as a spark jumped from his chest plating to the shock collar’s diodes, then into his vocalizer. 

Ricochet looked down, feigning disdain. “I don’t think you’ve earned an overload yet,” he commented. “You didn’t exactly work hard for that one; just took it like a pleasure drone.” Prowl sobbed, and Ricochet pinged him for a safeword. “Well, I don’t need you to enjoy it anyway. Maybe if you beg prettily enough, Jazz’ll let you come.”

Prowl sobbed again. But he came back with the _green_ safeword. He was okay with this. 

“Bring me a drink whenever you manage to pick yourself up,” Ricochet commanded, then went to find Jazz.

His twin was lounging on the couch, which was covered in soft but stain-proof plastic. A remote dangled from a strap around his wrist. His spike was proudly exposed and glistened with clear valve lubricant. As Ricochet had predicted: Jazz hadn’t waited for him to get there before starting. 

He looked grumpily at Ricochet. “That was rude.”

“Sure,” he agreed, flopping down on the other end of the couch. “But, if you invite me over for a meal, you can bet I’m going to eat it. You can have leftovers.”

Jazz just looked peeved. 

It took longer than Ricochet had expected, but Prowl came back in bearing two drinks. It looked like he’d tried to get off with his spike but hadn’t quite managed it. Jazz turned the peeved look on him. “What are you doing?”

Prowl looked down and held out the drinks; Ricochet took his and sipped it. “Fetching drinks?”

“You’re _walking,”_ Jazz clarified harshly. “And… did you try to get yourself off?”

“I’m sorry!” Prowl sniffed and lowered himself to the floor, crawling carefully so he could offer the other cube of fuel to Jazz. Jazz took it and set it aside. “I’m sorry. Ricochet, he—”

“We have rules,” Jazz interrupted. Prowl knelt between Jazz’s legs and started to take his spike into his mouth, but Jazz used the remote to direct his gaze upward so that they were looking into each others’ gazes. “We have a guest. That means you need to _behave;_ it doesn’t give you license to run wild. What are the rules, Pet?”

“Pets don’t walk on two legs,” Prowl whispered, and his intonation sounded almost natural to Ricochet’s audios. Emotional. Which meant the words and the emotion behind them had been carefully practiced. He glanced sideways at Ricochet, and Ricochet made sure to meet it with a smug grin. “Pets don’t talk unless spoken to. Pets don’t self-service. Pets don’t need spikes. Pets exist to please their masters.”

“Right.” Jazz pressed a button on the remote. 

_Fzzt-crack!_

Prowl yelped as the collar released a shock of electricity. Ricochet recognized the same exaggerated sound-and-light effect from the baton; real shock collars, ones used for noisy turbodogs and dangerous animals, didn’t make any sound beyond a faint buzz when they discharged. 

It went off a couple more times, then Jazz let the remote dangle again and pet Prowl’s head gently as he clung to his legs. Prowl looked tortured, in pain, but Ricochet could see just how much of his shaking was frustrated arousal rather than suffering. Masochist. 

“I suppose if you’re not going to follow the rules,” Jazz commented mildly, still petting Prowl’s head, “then I need to put you back into training.”

“No! Please! I’ll behave.”

Jazz ignored the pleading. Jazz pulled the box — the same box he’d had at Ricochet’s apartment — around with his foot and rummaged through it for only a few nanokliks. The desired strap was sitting on top, and Rico guessed this was part of the scene. Ricochet watched curiously as he pushed both Prowl’s doors down, flat against his back then stretched a soft, black elastic band around them both to keep them in place. Prowl sobbed once, then yelped when Jazz snapped the elastic against the flat armor. 

“What’s that do?” Ricochet was actually curious. 

Jazz grinned viciously. “Well Pet, care to demonstrate?” Prowl shook his head and stayed where he was. “Come on, Prowl. Up!” Jazz stood and pulled the Praxan to his feet in front of him. 

It was like Prowl’s gyros had suddenly become non-functional. He wobbled, started to fall, and clung to Jazz. Ruthless, Jazz pushed him away, spinning him towards Ricochet, and Prowl went flailing, falling on his back against the couch. 

“For training. He’s not allowed to walk, and now he can’t.” Jazz grinned, pushing Prowl down on the couch and laying him out; Ricochet helped, guiding the mech’s head onto his lap, and stroked his neck cables around the shock collar. “In that vein, if he won’t refrain from self-servicing or using his spike of his own accord…” 

“We make it so he can’t.” 

Ricochet watched with interest as Jazz attached the spike docking restraints. He physically _pushed_ Prowl’s spike to retract back into its housing, making Prowl scream in the process, then closed up the restraints. That let Jazz, or Ricochet, reach in to stimulate the very tip of his spike which just barely peeked out of its casing, but didn’t let Prowl extend it at all. Of course, trying to self-service like that would be an exercise in futility. The head pushed against the cage now sitting over it, and Prowl sobbed in frustration, but he didn’t fight any part of the process. 

“Now,” Jazz said, pushing him off the couch to the floor. “I heard something about earning an overload. After such a disappointing start, it’s going to take some work, so you had better get started.” 

Ricochet got bored watching Prowl ride Jazz’s spike. Jazz was the voyeur, not him. He fished the remote for the entertainment system out from underneath the couch and turned it on, leaving them to their game for the moment. He was a fairly active bot, yeah, but sometimes he just needed to veg with some trash on his off cycles, and he had the perfect show he’d been meaning to watch. 

Ricochet quickly became absorbed in the contestants and their futile attempts to impress the professional food judges with their homemade oilcakes. He could still hear them though. Jazz was noisier than Prowl was, grunting and growling out insults, instructions, commands, which Prowl did his best to follow. Jazz overloaded, then mocked Prowl for how long it was taking to get him hard again for a second. Then overloaded again. Three times, Ricochet heard the collar go off as Jazz found some reason to punish Prowl.

Somewhere during episode three, while the host was explaining the rules of this showstopper challenge, he heard Prowl finally cry out. 

Ricochet picked out his favorite to win, made a note to check back in with the show in seven kliks when they got around to judging that round and looked over in time to see Prowl slump over on Jazz, who was petting him gently, whispering things Ricochet probably didn’t want to hear. Prowl looked dazed but satisfied as he let himself slide off of Jazz’s spike and to the floor. Ricochet threw back the last of his drink and nudged Prowl to get his attention. 

“Fetch me another drink, Pet,” he commanded, holding out his cup and expecting Prowl to take it. “And clean up. You’re a mess and I don’t want to step in a puddle later.”

Floaty satisfaction turned to trepidation and embarrassment. Arousal too, though it was faint given how he’d just overloaded. Ricochet saw him struggle to flare out his doors, fighting the elastic restraint. “I… I don’t think I can.” 

“Pets exist to please their masters,” Ricochet threw the words at him ruthlessly. “Well, it would please me to have another drink. Take it and get going, or I’ll show you how _I_ punish disobedient pets.” Ricochet paused, pushed the cup at Prowl again. “Hint: I won’t be satisfied with pressing a dinky button; I will beat you with your own shock baton. _Thwack, thwack.”_

Prowl’s optics were wide and round, his fans panting in renewed want. Well, well… Ricochet was afraid he’d have to unsubspace the toy, which would break the illusion of it being Prowl’s, but Prowl snatched the cup and held it to his chest while he did his best to scuttle back to the kitchen with a compromised gyro. 

As soon as he was out of sight, Ricochet unsubspaced the toy and considered it. 

“Good call with that threat,” Jazz chortled softly. 

“Mech likes…” Ricochet wasn’t sure how to politely say _being abused by the symbols of the system he works for_ so he trailed off. 

Jazz figured it out, or close enough, anyway. “More like… You know policemechs get software patches, ones that affect temperament?” Ricochet nodded. “So for Prowl, there’s,” Jazz held out one hand and hefted an insubstantial weight, “being a submissive, which is _him,_ and then,” he held out the other, “there’s being dominant, which is _not him,_ and never the twain shall overlap. So if he has sexual feelings toward the baton…”

“He wants it used on him, or it can’t be something he really wants.” Ricochet wrinkled his nose. That didn’t sound like a fun or healthy way to live, but it wasn’t his mind. Maybe it was the only way Prowl could live with the software patch and stay himself. 

“I mean…” Jazz continued, sipping on his own, still full drink, “there’s also fear conditioning. Hear and see that thing go off enough times and anyone would start flinching, even if they’re not the target. Given Prowl’s kinks, that’d almost guarantee he’d start to get a fetish, even without the complication of dealing with the software patch.”

There was a point. And if anyone had a reason to investigate the psychology of kink development, it was probably these two. It all did dovetail very nicely with Ricochet’s attraction to seeing the pretty black and white writhe on that baton until his sirens went off. It wasn’t quite revenge, since Prowl had never been anything but professional around him until Jazz had pulled him in as a second dom, but there was definite _satisfaction,_ definite _want_ behind the thought of tormenting _any_ police officer in ways he’d been threatened with and tormented by the past. _But_ he had a responsibility to his submissive. “Is the baton thing okay?”

“Yeah. You’re driving over a paved road. I was just letting you know: it was a good threat, and keeping up the theme is a good way to go.”

Ricochet might have responded to that, or might not, but they were interrupted by a crash in the kitchen. He stood, alarmed, and only calmed slightly when the safeword signal _green_ hit his comsuite. 

Jazz was two steps in front of him.

Prowl, when they got there, was scrambling around on the floor, trying to clean up the ice cubes that had spilled all over the floor and the upended bin from the ice maker. 

It looked like he’d managed to get Ricochet’s drink almost ready. It was sitting on the counter, pretty as a picture. Prowl’s nonexistent balance must have finally gotten the better of him when he’d gone to get ice from the freezer. Prowl saw them and ducked his head, mortified by the spill. 

Jazz laughed. 

Taking his cue from Prowl’s dom, Ricochet whipped out a camera. “Spread your legs a little more, Pet. I want Smokescreen to see how well fragged you are when he sees this clumsiness.”

Prowl ducked his head, and Ricochet heard his fans whine in stress, but he spread his legs. Ricochet went ahead and snapped the picture, making sure the flash went off for it. He admired the picture — Prowl didn’t just look well-fragged and clumsy with it, but spreading his legs that little bit more made him look like he was begging for more — then erased it without saving it even once. He definitely didn’t send it to Smokescreen. That was one of Jazz’s rules. There was nothing more potentially humiliating than a picture or a video, and because Prowl had a reputation he needed to maintain or get harassed, or possibly even getting fired from the department, they were also dangerous. They weren’t allowed to exist. But Prowl had to be wondering if Ricochet knew that, or if he would abide by it.

Jazz’s laughter died to chortles. He used the collar to shock Prowl, prompting a yelp. “That’s for spilling. Clean it up, Pet.”

“Yes, Jazz.”

“Then bring me my drink,” Ricochet scolded. “And I’ll be very displeased if it’s warm because of this.” 

“Yes, Ricochet.” 

As Jazz wandered back to the couch, Ricochet looked down and realized that in his haste to get over here to check on Prowl, he hadn’t actually put the baton down. 

His fans turned on. Prowl was in such a good position to… _”This is the price you pay for my protection, slut."_ a femme’s voice whispered in Ricochet’s mind. _"Now suck on it, or else—”_ He finished the threat out loud: “I’m going to shove this up your aft and shock you until you scream.” 

That was… that was almost definitely crossing a line, and he sent the query to check how Prowl felt about it. If it was too much, Ricochet wouldn’t do it. This was a game, and he’d never harmed a lover before, much less by letting his issues spill over into their play, but Jazz had _said_ using the baton was something Prowl liked…

 _Yellow._ Proceed with caution. Ricochet could do that. If nothing else, if yellow turned to red, he’d be satisfied to see Prowl suck on the baton, just like he had.

Prowl tried to clumsily scramble away; Ricochet caught him by the back of the shock collar and wrestled him under him face down. 

Holding Prowl in place with his knee, Ricochet dug a tube of lube out of his subspace, and another condom for good measure. The vinyl would blunt the shocks a little. Combined with the minimum setting, Ricochet hoped Prowl wouldn’t really feel any shock at all, just react to that noise echoing through his struts. 

He lubed up both the baton and Prowl’s port thoroughly, actually emptying the bottle while Prowl writhed and tried to escape and begged for Ricochet to use something else, anything else, please! Whatever. He had more lube, and he was sure Jazz had plenty too. 

_Slow,_ he reminded himself. _Go slow._

 _Slowly,_ Ricochet pushed the baton into Prowl’s aft port. The Praxan, the police officer, screeched in helpless outrage. But no pain. 

Ricochet continued pushed the baton in gradually, letting Prowl’s own struggles do the work of stretching him around the invasion. He panted; his vision filled with the glorious sight of a black and white frame being violated by his own weapon. 

He was tempted to push as far as it would go, up to the baton’s hilt if Prowl’s frame would let him, but he forced himself to stop at the length of an average spike. That was enough. That was more than enough. He pressed the button to discharge the shock.

_**FZZZT-CRACK!!** _

Prowl screeched, simultaneously arching into it and trying to claw his way across the floor, away. He didn’t succeed, pinned as he was by Ricochet’s weight on his back. Actually, if he shifted _just so_ he could break the lightbar with his knee… but he didn’t. He sent the safeword request.

 _Green._

Grinning, Ricochet shocked him again. 

This time there was no overload to tell him when to stop. He thrust and pumped that thing in and out of Prowl until he cried and shocked him whenever the hell he felt like it. It didn’t take long at all for Prowl to scream. Ricochet made him do it several more times. 

Then, honestly, he got bored. It was like popping a soap bubble. All the build-up was like surface tension, but now that Ricochet was actually taking that symbolic revenge… well, he wasn’t getting off on it, so it lost its appeal quickly. Prowl was still enjoying himself though, so Ricochet kept at it for a klik longer, then pulled the baton free. 

Prowl was an aroused, crying, sobbing mess. He hadn’t gotten off. 

He’d been such a good sport, playing along with Ricochet’s issues. Ricochet shucked the condom off the baton, then thrust it into his valve. He didn’t even bother with the shocks, though it did make him wish the baton had a sound-effect-only setting. He fragged Prowl until he overloaded. Then he was a _limp,_ still mildly aroused, crying, sobbing mess. 

Ricochet got off of him and snagged a dishtowel to wipe off the baton toy. He tossed the towel down onto Prowl’s head, where he was just starting to pick himself up. “Finish cleaning,” he ordered, snagging his drink. It didn’t really need ice. “Then come back to the couch. No dawdling.”

“Yes, Ricochet,” Prowl’s voice was a total monotone and Ricochet preened at that evidence that he’d actually gotten under the Praxan’s plating.

He didn’t want Prowl thinking he was being thrown away, though, so he added, “I’ve got a reward for you once you get there.” He’d have to come up with something. “You’re such a good fragtoy.”

He wasn’t feeling guilty, because he hadn’t done anything to feel guilty _for,_ but he was feeling extra protective, so instead of going right back to the couch to wait (it looked like a new episode of the baking show had started without him, which meant he’d have to backtrack to find out who’d won the last, or last few, episodes), he hovered at the kitchen doorway to watch Prowl clean up.

 _That sounded like a good time,_ Jazz pinged on a private channel. 

_Was,_ Ricochet admitted. _What’s a good reward for him during scenes like this?_

_Candy. In the drawer under the vidscreen. If he’s good he’s allowed on the couch. If you’re feeling indulgent, you can pet him while you watch this… whatever the frag this garbage is._

Ricochet ignored the insult. _Great Iaconi Baking Show,_ he answered, leaving Prowl to throw the wet towels in the hamper unsupervised now that he was done cleaning up the ice. He pulled open the drawer. He didn’t recognize the brands or flavors, so he just pulled out a handful of sweets. _And it’s total trash. If I was invested, I’d want to pay attention to it._ Which, he really wasn’t right now.

Jazz just laughed.

He’d just flopped down on the couch and put the baton conspicuously in reach when Prowl crept out of the kitchen and past the dining area. He looked dazed again, and he was sniffling, but he’d stopped crying. Ricochet grinned, showing off his fangs. “Come here, Pet.” It took a moment for Prowl’s glazed over gaze to focus on him, and he crawled slowly, placing each limb carefully. “Up,” he ordered when he reached the couch.

Prowl obeyed but arranged himself defensively, in a fetal position between the two twins, curled up to hide his face, protect his vulnerable abdomen and shield his interfacing equipment from them. _Green_ he sent before Ricochet could ping him for the safeword. He looked at Jazz, and Jazz nodded. This was normal. 

Well okay. He’d been hoping for some cuddling, but if Prowl needed to hide for a bit he could do that. Ricochet petted Prowl’s door, then snapped the elastic gently. “Good Pet. I have a,” he glared at the candy he’d grabbed, realizing he didn’t just not-recognize any of it but that the labels were in a language he didn’t read. “Thing,” he finished, hoping the sounds of him unwrapping one from its protective sheet of waxed tinfoil would let Prowl know he was getting a treat. 

Prowl rolled over, keeping his belly and exposed interfacing equipment hidden against the couch cushions, and nuzzled Ricochet’s hand. 

Awww… Not having any reason to torment his submissive right now, he popped it into his mouth. 

A succession of candies later, Prowl was once again laying on his side, back to the room. Still hiding, but this time his arms were wrapped around Ricochet, his face pressed up against his dom’s abdomen, and he wasn’t pressed so close to the back of the couch. They could pet his chest with the same ease as his doors. Cuddling. 

Something in Ricochet eased further. He was glad Prowl was still willing to relax with him. 

Feeling better — both of them — he went ahead and nudged Prowl’s legs apart and reached down to grope his crotch. Prowl tensed, but when Ricochet didn’t shove something terrifying and painful into him, he relaxed, though there was a small flicker of disappointment in his EM field. Grinning, Ricochet fondled and Prowl’s valve-lips and started thoroughly molesting him. His “revenge” fantasy might have turned into a popped bubble of released tension, but _molesting_ ~~a cop~~ Prowl hadn’t lost its appeal. He’d get back to hurting him in a bit. 

A “bit” turned into a few more episodes while he and Jazz debated the merits of each contestant’s cakes and puddings and other baked goods. The judges were snooty and more fun to mock than the contestants were, and the two hosts were fantastic, helpful and humorous. Of course there was the occasional meltdown; those were pretty fun to watch too. Watching, Ricochet kind of wished he could bake. If he could, maybe he’d be able to get a job as a cook!

Ricochet didn’t neglect his pet though. He kept groping and massaging around Prowl’s valve, squeezing the soft lips gently, then running his fingers across the entrance to spread around the steady trickle of lubricant. He carefully dipped his knuckles inside him, feeling the calipers flex, but didn’t try to do more right now. Despite how Prowl’s frame hitched in arousal every time he touched the sensor nubs, his vent cycles indicated more relaxation than desire, and Ricochet purred every time he inched closer and they ended up cuddling a little more.

Without bothering to wipe the lubricant off his hand, he petted Prowl’s doors, then snapped the elastic restraint curiously. “How’s this really feel, Pet?”

He hadn’t been aware a Praxan’s doors were so integral to his balance. Would it work on Smokescreen? Of course, Smokescreen wasn’t really Praxan so maybe he was designed differently. Ricochet didn’t know if he would even like being that helpless anyway, or if he’d be able to find a door-restraint like that here in Iacon. If Smokescreen did like the idea, they might have to order it from Praxus, or wherever Jazz had gotten his. Or maybe he could try his hand at making one if he could find the materials for cheaper than the finished product.

Something to think about.

“It hurts a little,” Prowl said softly. His intonation was flat, so Ricochet petted him in reassurance. “And I’m helpless. I don’t like it, but…” He shuddered, and Ricochet heard the arousal in the soft engine whine. “Toys exist for their masters’ pleasure.”

“With or without not-fun restraints,” Ricochet agreed. He went back to groping Prowl’s valve, spreading the new gush of lubricant around. “You’re mine now too. Jazz and me, we’re as forever as conjunxes, and now that I know I can just come over here and frag you whenever… You can bet I’m gonna. No more self-servicing for me. I always did like playing with his toys.”

Prowl whined in denial. “I have a reputation…”

“I know,” Ricochet said ruthlessly. Then, more honest than he wished it was, added, “That’s part of the appeal.”

Prowl sobbed gently against Ricochet’s plating. 

Ricochet stroked Prowl’s belly. “What are you two gonna do about kids?” he asked Jazz, returning his hand to Prowl’s valve. Families were kind of expected of the higher-ranked police officers — or at least every one of them on TV had at least three or four hatchlings underfoot — but he’d never actually overheard the police gossiping about one of their own carrying. How complete was Prowl’s need to separate his desires into “submissive” and “alien coding”?

“Prowl wants to carry,” Jazz answered, petting his conjunx’s foot affectionately. “Helplessness, humiliation… Prowl _wants_ to carry. Wants to carry and maybe not even be sure all his eggs are mine.” Prowl hiccuped. “Conceive during a night of being tied down and gang-banged by so many mechs every one of his eggs might have a different sire…” Prowl whined, and Jazz patted him again. “But we’re definitely not doing that. We’re saving up to buy a really good ovipositor though. When it comes to actual sparklings… I’ll carry. My career can afford the pause. There’s less of a chance they’ll inherit the software patch that way too.”

This definitely wasn’t the context to ask if Prowl liked spiking enough to even do the deed. He’d liked Ricochet’s hands on him well enough, that first night with him, but that was alongside that massive spike in his valve and Ricochet’s spike up his aft. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Hungry,” Prowl interjected quietly. 

Jazz tweaked his foot to get his attention, then shocked him with the collar. Prowl yelped. 

“Don’t interrupt,” Jazz scolded, then shocked him again. “And Pets don’t speak unless spoken to.” Prowl knew that. Ricochet knew he knew. So he also knew Prowl had done it to provoke punishment. His hand was still fondling Prowl’s valve, so he felt how every shock and scolding word made him wetter and more aroused. “If you’re hungry,” Jazz suggested, “you can give me a blowjob and eat my ‘fluid.”

Prowl eased himself off the couch and scooted over, in between Jazz’s legs. He nuzzled the plating there and Ricochet decided that was his cue to leave for a few kliks. Maybe go find that food. Both he and Jazz had had fuel, but Prowl hadn’t had anything. What did they normally do for food on days where they played this game? Ricochet had been here for joors and neither of them had shown any inclination to stop. Did they order take out? If so, Prowl wouldn’t be the one answering the door then!

Deciding the cooling unit was a good place to start looking, Ricochet opened it. 

Taking up a whole shelf was a tray of expensive savory fuel-nibbles. They were scrumptious looking and had been laid out very prettily. A card sitting in front of it labeled it “Master”. On the shelf below it, there was a ceramic pet bowl filled with kibble. That one was labeled “Pet”. Well, that was clear enough. Curious if it really was pet food, Ricochet snagged one of the kibbles and popped it in his mouth. 

Nope. It tasted more like the crunchies you bought for hatchlings to nom on and throw around the room. Filling, nutritious… sweet enough to rust teeth. Just like that sludge Prowl had made for breakfast. And the reward-candies. Probably supposed to be a treat then, maybe even one Prowl didn’t let himself want in public. Something he’d eaten growing up but wasn’t “allowed” to like as an adult?

Humming to himself, Ricochet pulled both out of the cooler and set them on the counter. Wanting another drink, a warm one, he found the heating pot, poured in the fuel, and filled the strainer with some stimulant (which he did _not_ sweeten further) and started it. Then he started going through the cupboards, wondering if there was a second pet bowl around here somewhere. He wasn’t above giving Prowl some of the stimulant, especially if he could watch him make faces at the bitter taste and try to hide how it dribbled down his chin while he was licking it up. He found a stack of pet bowls hidden next to the sink in the back of a cupboard he almost hadn’t checked because of how he had to contort to get a good look inside.

Ricochet had only been a waiter for a few vorns but he still knew how to juggle trays and plates and cubes of food like a pro.

He was a little relieved Jazz was done and Prowl was just cuddling against his legs again when he returned. 

Ricochet put everything down on the side table next to the couch and started distributing. Jazz put the tray of expensive nibbles on the couch between the twins’ seats while Ricochet put both of the bowls on the floor. He debated a moment over whether he wanted Prowl to be facing away from them — giving them an entertaining view of his valve and aft — or towards them. Deciding to watch him eat from the front, he nudged both of them a little closer to the couch. “What do you say, Pet?”

“Thank you, Ricochet. You are a very kind master,” Prowl answered with a perfectly modulated amount of emotion. He daintily crunched one of the kibbles between his teeth and made an adorable sound of suppressed pleasure.

Well, he couldn’t have Prowl thinking of him as “kind”. Holding his stim with one hand, Ricochet dug through the toy box with the other. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, really, just that— Perfect. It was a small false spike, but it had a flared base. _And_ a toy cop car glued to that base. Ricochet found the switch, guessing it probably vibrated (which it did) but his optic band lit up in glee when the little car’s lightbar also turned on, flickering with red and blue LEDs. 

He lubed the thing up, then reached down to test how stretched Prowl’s aft port still was. Prowl froze, whined uncertainly. 

Ricochet slid the toy in, pleased at the lack of resistance from Prowl’s frame, wiggled it. Prowl didn’t shriek in outrage this time, but his plating did bristle with offense. “Keep that there. If it comes out, I’m taking the food away and,” he nudged the baton pointedly.

Prowl’s optics went wide and round and his fans came on. It was nice to know taking it up the aft continued to be humiliating or violating enough for Prowl to be aroused by it, even though his earlier experience in the kitchen suggested he wouldn’t be able to overload from that by itself. Some mechs couldn’t; they just didn’t have the right sensors in there to find aft stimulation pleasurable.

“I’d hurry up and eat if I were you, Pet,” Jazz suggested, nibbling on a tiny cube of layered fuels from the nibbles tray. “We both can see that thing glowing in your aft and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to resist shoving our spikes into your hole.”

“Maybe both of us at once,” Ricochet proposed, though he had absolutely no intention of doing so. He was here to play with his twin’s toy, not effectively have sex with his twin.

Prowl couldn’t know that though, and quickly bent down to eat. That showed off his bound doorwings, and with his aft in the air Ricochet had a perfect view of the little cop car with its blinking lights. It was a lovely, absolutely debasing picture. Ricochet “snapped” another photo to “send” to Smokescreen. Prowl whimpered and lowered his aft in a futile attempt to hide it from view. 

It was kind of interesting to watch Prowl eat like this. He gobbled up the sweet kibble quickly and neatly and with as much dignity as he could while eating from a pet bowl on the floor. It was obviously something he’d done many, many times and was practiced at the motions necessary. He made a face at the bitter taste of the stimulant-fuel Ricochet had given him, but lapped at the bowl, sending splashes to the floor and dribbling down his chin just like Ricochet’d predicted. 

Once he was done, Prowl got half a joor for the fuel to settle into his tank — according to Jazz’s rules — before any sex or major punishments. So Ricochet let his interest wander back to the show, and to his own meal, as Prowl started pawing around their feet, whining and whimpering, looking for dropped tidbits and attention. Neither he nor Jazz took the dildo out of his aft, so Ricochet figured that wasn’t “sex” for the purposes of Jazz’s rules. Which was good. He was still snickering every time he glanced down and saw the little cop car and its little light-up lightbar, which made Prowl’s EM field blush in a way that was very satisfying.

Jazz and Ricochet couldn’t have eaten that whole tray of fuel if they’d had a decacylce to do it. After the half-joor had passed with them eating intermittently, and when Prowl had stopped looking for crumbs and settled down into a miserable huddle to hide the visible end of the dildo from them, Jazz took what was left and “discarded” it on the eating table. 

Ricochet took advantage of him being off the couch to throw his leg over the couch cushions, opening his legs up wide. He’d had enough of playing around. It had all been fun, yeah, but it was time for his climax. He snickered at his double-meaning. He was going to overload, yeah, but this was also going to be the high point of the cycle. “Up,” he commanded Prowl, and the miserable Praxan crawled clumsily onto the couch to kneel between Ricochet’s legs. “I want your mouth on my spike, Pet. Now.”

Prowl bent down to lick Ricochet’s panel immediately, and he didn’t make his pet work for it. He was eager for it. This time, though, he caressed and fondled Prowl back, driving his charge up from something other than just humiliating him. 

Soft, wet lips wrapped around the head of Ricochet’s spike and Prowl sucked. Ricochet pulled Prowl closer to hump his mouth as it extended. “Ooh yeah. That’s good, Pet. Do you realize how many times I’ve fucked you this cycle? And now I’m going to do it a couple more times. Going to make you scream, Pet,” he promised, but he pushed Prowl away before his spike finished pressuring. He wanted to see Prowl’s reaction to seeing it.

Prowl looked confused but obeyed. 

Grinning viciously, Ricochet flexed all the barbs so they stood straight up, and watched Prowl’s optics go wide. “That’s going in you,” Ricochet whispered while Prowl shivered. Fear and want and arousal lanced through his EM field. “That’s going _inside_ you,” Ricochet repeated. He leaned forward, pushing Prowl down onto his back while he crawled on top of him. “And then I am going to frag you hard while you scream for me to stop. I am going to _take_ you, and you will be sore for days and dreaming about me for the rest of your miserable life.”

Prowl made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Ricochet pinged him for the safeword — if this wasn’t what Prowl wanted, then he’d pull the barbs in and just use them as the bumpy texture he’d used before.

 _Green._ Prowl shuddered. 

“You are never going to be able to wash me out of you.” Literally, Prowl would find out, Ricochet thought as he gleefully switched over to using the toy’s reservoir of ink instead of his own transfluid when he orgasmed.

He saw Jazz leaning against the wall, watching eagerly. Voyeur. 

Prowl wiggled, pushing himself away from Ricochet, clawing at the couch cushions. He’d given him the green light to go ahead though, so Ricochet didn’t let him escape. With a growl, he caught his hands, fingered the clips that had been installed in his wrists that he hadn’t thought much about up until this point. 

“Here,” Jazz came over and pulled a hidden loop of cord that had been secured to the couch’s leg, then tucked under out of sight. He clipped Prowl’s wrists to it, then pulled a second one up so that Prowl’s hands would be secured in the center of the couch, over his head, instead of pulled to one side. Then, because they were installed in Prowl’s frame, Jazz manually triggered the microtransformation that would lock both clips closed and to each other. 

“No,” Prowl begged, then yelped when Jazz punished him with the collar. “Please. I can’t take that.”

Ricochet hesitated. He wasn’t a rapist, he’d never just kept going when his partner said “no” before... _Green,_ Prowl sent, then after a pause, _Generalized query._

Was Ricochet okay with Prowl not just trying to wiggle away, but also acting outright unwilling? He’d been the one to tell him that’s what he wanted, just now... _Yellow,_ he sent back. He could keep going, but he wasn’t sure how far he could push this. 

“Please don’t,” Prowl whispered in a monotone, but his frantic struggles to escape stilled. He struggled in his bonds, but the microtransformation locking him in spontaneously released. Ricochet chuckled. Right. As part of his frame, Prowl would have control over those just like he did his own spike mod. Jazz being the one to lock him in was for show.

“Want me to get his feet?” Jazz offered. 

Running his claws over Prowl’s chest, petting his neck around the collars, toying with the necklace and its ownership tags... Prowl leaned into the touches, even as he begged Ricochet to _please stop._ “Yeah,” Ricochet answered, and Prowl went ahead and kicked as a demonstration of what he could do if he was allowed to struggle. “Better do that.”

Ricochet stayed on top of their pet, pinning him down while Prowl fought against Jazz restraining his legs. This time, Jazz didn’t engage the microtransformations that made it look like he was locked in, just clipped the cords into place. One of Prowl’s feet only had to be pulled down to the end of the couch and clipped to the rope around the couch’s front leg. His other leg, though, was pulled up onto the back of the couch so the rope attached to the back leg could reach. Prowl couldn’t work the rope over the corner of the couch to get enough slack to escape. He was pulled out supine, unable to curl up and hide. Unable to protect himself. His legs were forced wide open to show off his inviting, irresistible valve, and in a perfect position for anyone to just _take_ him.

“Perfect,” Ricochet murmured while Prowl continued to fight uselessly. Ricochet’s charge had tapered off a bit from the side-drama, but Prowl’s frame was running hot. He ran his hand over his pet’s exposed valve and found it scalding and wet, clenching needily against his palm. “Ready, Pet? I’m going to make you scream now.”

“I can’t,” Prowl yelped; Ricochet heard the tell-tale inflection that told him he was pretending. That he was _concentrating,_ which meant Ricochet needed to get on with it and start driving him out of his processor. “Please. Don’t. I can’t take it. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good pet. I’ll do anything.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ricochet assured. It looked like the police car dildo had worked free while they were restraining Prowl, but he didn’t want to go digging around the cushions for it right now. “This is what you _are._ I’m going to frag you because that’s what _I_ want. You don’t matter at all.”

Fun as it might have been to just take Prowl in a single stroke again, Ricochet wasn’t as certain where the limits were with this thing on him and the barbs fully deployed. He went slow, letting the barbs flex and fold as they disappeared, row by row, into Prowl’s wet valve. 

Prowl clenched, crying, and the sensation that transmitted through his neural net as the barbs shifted and dug into the soft lining sent stars across Ricochet’s vision. He wasn’t even all the way in yet! 

He wasn’t going to last very long if the sensation was going to keep being that intense. 

Maybe that was a good thing, Ricochet managed to think as he panted and finished seating himself fully inside Prowl. His pet’s frantic cycling and pained whimpers and wracking sobs all belied just how close to overload _he_ was. Ricochet could already see sparks dancing over his frame. Experimentally, he started to pull out, catching the barbs against the inside of Prowl’s valve. 

Prowl went ahead and screamed for him, overloading immediately. 

Encouraged, Ricochet rocked against Prowl, thrusting shallowly to chase his own overload. His vision nearly whited each time the barbs caught in Prowl’s fragile lining. Lubricant made thrusting easier, but it didn’t change what was happening, and Ricochet could feel every, single, one of those barbs from the tip to the base and it was an overwhelming amount of sensation, much more intense than his experiments in the shower had been. Prowl continued to struggle, to scream from the pain and Ricochet might have worried he was getting no pleasure of his own from this, but almost without warning, he overloaded again.

For a moment, Ricochet’s vision really _did_ white out.

He needed... he just needed... Ricochet wasn’t aware that he’d sped up, ripping the barbs along the inside of Prowl’s valve until Prowl shrieked, overloading a third time and this time, _this time_ Ricochet went with him. All of the barbs stood out straight, catching solidly against the sides of Prowl’s valve and locking them together.

Transfluid blocked, he squirted the entire cartridge of ink deep into Prowl. 

He didn’t pull out. He panted and wiggled each barb individually until he felt it unhook from Prowl and folded it flat against the shaft of his spike. Prowl whimpered, sobs hitching in time with Ricochet’s work. 

“Damage report,” Ricochet demanded as soon as the last barb came free and he could pull out, retracting his spike back into his plating. Now that the euphoria had passed, he felt a little sick. Prowl had been begging for him not to do this, and even though the barbs were blunt, they had obviously hurt and maybe he’d ripped something...

Prowl didn’t bother running a full diagnostic. He pinged over the raw data from his valve interfacing systems immediately: it was _full_ of the sore calipers and strained and scratched... everything that, as Ricochet had promised, he would keep feeling for days, but there were no rips or tears or bleeding of any kind. 

_Green,_ he sent, for good measure, to Ricochet’s relief. 

“Good,” Ricochet said. “Because you are never washing me out of you.” He ran his fingers through the fluid leaking from Prowl’s entrance and staining his array and thighs, then wiped them off on Prowl’s chest, above his bumper. The ink Jazz had chosen was, as it was designed to do, reacting with Prowl’s lubricant to turn a bright, fluorescent yellow a few shades brighter than his visor. “I don’t care if you think it’s gone, that stuff’s going to glow under a black light for weeks.”

Well, probably only for a day or two. It had washed out of Ricochet’s shower alright.

Prowl, who had been panting and cycling down after three very intense and painful overloads, saw the bright yellow mark, realized what it meant, and screeched in outrage.

.

.

.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

# Epilogue

.

.

.

The bed dipped. Ricochet’s lover wiggled, and he tightened his arms automatically. There wasn’t the distinct ozone-musk-detergent scent of a cheap motel, so he didn’t think he’d sprung for a hooker last night. Hooker would have left joors ago anyway. Ricochet rolled over onto his partner, pinning him in place. If he wasn’t a hooker, he wasn’t leaving without being cuddled first. He had joors and _joors_ before he needed to be up for his nighttime job, and Smokescreen — assuming the doorwinged frame was Smokescreen — didn’t have anywhere urgent he needed to be. If it wasn’t Smokescreen, he could still afford to stay a few more kliks while Ricochet finished waking up.

Mmmph. Ricochet got comfy on top of his partner. Not going anywhere now!

Prowl whimpered and the whole of the last cycle came flooding into Ricochet’s fuzzy consciousness. He blinked on his optical feed to see the Praxan shivering, almost fearfully. Definitely trying not to cry.

“Sorry,” muttered, feeling bad for… whatever he’d just done wrong. He eased himself off of Prowl. “Go ahead and cry on me. S’why I’m here.” He wanted to pull Prowl against his chest and open his vents to keep him warm and coo and comfort… but Prowl. He was still trying to fit into this extended aftercare thing and he didn’t know yet if that was what Prowl needed.

“May I leave?” Prowl whispered in a monotone that belied how close he was to breaking down.

“Yeah.” Reluctantly, Ricochet let him go. Reluctant because kicking his crying lover out of bed was not what he wanted to be doing, now or ever. But he wouldn’t be helping by holding him captive either. 

“Thank you.”

Instead of rolling over and going back into recharge, Ricochet sat up to watch Prowl finish easing himself off the bed and stand over by the mirror.

Was he checking himself for injuries, or just assessing in general? Deciding which of the two collars to take off? They’d removed all the restraints and mods from Prowl’s frame last night, while they were cleaning up. The clips on his wrists and ankles, the spike inhibitor, all put away. Jazz had replaced the shock collar with a simple, soft one made of padded bronzesilk right before tucking Prowl into the clean sheets. What did it mean that Prowl removed that one, but the longer necklace, the one with the lock and tags, he left where it was?

He and Jazz had done a number on Prowl’s paint, Ricochet reflected, taking the chance to check Prowl over for injuries himself. He was scratched and pitted all over. Most of the damage was just the result of two frames rubbing together vigorously. Jazz and Ricochet had those marks too. Some, though, were the parallel lines characteristic of Ricochet’s claws. None of those he could see were deep, he was grateful to note, though he hadn’t really been worried that he’d lost control last night. Always good to check though. Some of the ink either hadn’t washed off completely or had been flushed out of Prowl’s valve overnight. The bright yellow almost glowed in this low light, and Ricochet found himself grinning wolfishly. If Prowl didn’t object to it now, in the light of the morning after, Ricochet was _definitely_ doing that again! It was unexpectedly _satisfying_ to see his ‘fluid (even if it technically wasn’t _his_ ‘fluid) indelibly marking Prowl as his. Next time he’d bring some extra paint and find some other ways to mark Prowl up.

Oooh... He could practice with Smokescreen! Ricochet was always looking for new ways to impress upon the wandering, free-spirited gambler that he _belonged to Ricochet_... at least the nights they were together. He’d have to ask Prowl if he could borrow his spiky-spike toy though, or do without; it’d take him years — or a loan from Jazz that Ricochet wouldn’t ask for — to scrape together enough extra money to buy a good temporary mod like that one. Especially if he was committing to buying other washable paints to play with as well.

Right now, though, Ricochet was mostly looking forward to a nice bath to help Prowl finish getting that yellow off of him. 

Prowl abruptly left the room, and Ricochet stowed his fantasies to scramble out of the blankets and follow. He noticed his own morning erection, of course, but dismissed it for more important things. Sex right after getting up was a no, even if Prowl didn’t say no. He could learn!

He leaned against the door of the kitchen, watching Prowl make his overly sweet stimulant blend. He opened his mouth to ask him to make something else for him since rot-your-teeth-sweet was not his favorite flavor. _Make your own, I’m not your servant,_ the memory of Prowl last time whispered. He’d had to psych himself up to say it. Or have his first breakdown. Or something. It didn’t matter: if Prowl wasn’t ready for defiance, it’d be unfair to pressure him. 

“Morning, Prowl,” he yawned nonchalantly as he walked past him. He didn’t meet the suddenly trepidatious gaze, opting to go through the cooling unit instead. He could just grab a handful of the leftover nibbles... maybe sprinkle some stimulant on top in lieu of dissolving it into the not-liquid energon. He didn’t bother sorting the flavors, just piled them into his hand and closed the cooler. 

Prowl was staring at him, at his spike, like he was a cryosnake that was about to bite.

He’d been afraid that Ricochet would leave, last time. Or that he’d have sex with him, take advantage of his still-unsure state, and then leave. “It’s just a morning wood,” Ricochet assured, dumping his breakfast nibbles into a bowl. He set that on the counter, then stepped closer to Prowl. He didn’t bolt, but he didn’t look comfortable. Ricochet petted his cheek comfortingly. “It’ll go away on its own. And I’m not leaving until evening anyway.” Jazz had kissed Prowl’s forehead, so Ricochet went ahead and did that, then reluctantly stepped away and let Prowl go, reaching past him to get the stimulant powder. “We’re in this together from beginning until end.” 

Prowl looked stunned. Then relieved when the brewer dinged that it was done. “I need to go wake up Jazz,” he blurted out in a stressed monotone. 

~~Go do that.~~ _No commands._ “Sure.” Ricochet concentrated _really hard_ on pouring just the right amount of stim powder onto his breakfast. He tried not to feel abandoned himself. He had no reason. Jazz was Prowl’s conjunx, and they had some sort of morning-after aftercare routine that Ricochet was just blundering through and ruining. 

So Prowl woke up, made breakfast, went to wake up Jazz — maybe next time Ricochet should wait to be woken? Would that be better? Was that when Prowl wanted to start cuddling? — then... movie on the couch, something weepy so that they could all cry. That was next. Hopefully.

Ricochet had to wrestle the stain-proof slipcovers, now with more than a few stains on it, off of the couch first. He dumped them into the pile with the soiled sheets from the bed, then passing the bedroom on his way back from the laundry room he heard moans. Prowl and Jazz, having sex. Ricochet scowled down at his own, rejected, erection and reminded himself that they were conjunxes. They could have sex ~~and cuddle afterwards~~ without him. 

Well, the couch was clean anyway, so he flopped down on it with his breakfast. The entertainment system flickered on. The Great Iaconi Baking Show came up, having stopped playing automatically somewhere in the second season. Ricochet didn’t know who’d won the first, but he didn’t bother backtracking and just pressed play. He could find a sad, weepy movie when they came out of the bedroom. Meanwhile, he needed to figure out who these self-centered jerks were and why the frag he should care which one of them won the dumb baking contest.

Maybe Prowl just didn’t want to have sex while Ricochet was still wearing the barbed spike mod? Ricochet considered his boner, now neglected to the point that it was starting to retreat back into his plating on its own. Of course, Ricochet wouldn’t deploy the barbs right now — _aftercare!_ — but Prowl didn’t know that, did he? Even if he didn’t think Ricochet was scum, he didn’t know how much control he had over the barbs. 

Well that was an easy fix, wasn’t it? The toy belonged to them anyway. Ricochet had planned on taking it off before he left; now was as good a time as any.

He was still struggling with it when Jazz and Prowl emerged, their cups of breakfast fuel still pretty much full. 

“What are you doing?” Jazz guided Prowl to come and sit down on the couch, between them. Prowl just looked down at his drink and scooted closer to Jazz to lean against him; Ricochet stomped on a fragment of jealousy. Prowl looked like he’d been crying again, but he seemed stable now. It might not last since Prowl could swing from one emotional extreme to the other during this part, but Ricochet was glad of it now.

“Trying to get this thing off,” Ricochet grunted in answer. “Figured I should since it’s yours.”

“Prowl,” Jazz said expectantly. 

Prowl just turned further away from Ricochet in response. That actively hurt. Ricochet looked away and slammed his own emotional walls up as well. If that was how it was going to be… 

_“Prowl,”_ Jazz growled and Prowl hunched his shoulders. 

“He don’t wanna, he don’t have to,” Ricochet snapped. “I get it. I’m scum. Unclean. If I’m not forcing myself on him, he doesn’t wanna touch me. I’ll just get this thing off and get out of your way.”

“That’s not how this works,” Jazz snapped back, but his voice and manner gentled when he turned his attention back to Prowl, who had started to sniffle. He stroked the necklace tags, picked out the one that gave others permission to participate. “Why’s this one on the one you don’t take off until you’re done with aftercare?”

“They stay,” Prowl whispered. “I’m not allowed to lock them out. We make room for them, even now.”

“Right. Now help Ricochet with the toy and stop ignoring his needs.”

“I’m not having sex with him,” Ricochet retorted, but he let Prowl settle between his legs and stroke him to arousal and start untangling the wires and tubing and barbs. “You don’t wanna touch me, that’s fine.” Still, he took the chance to pet Prowl’s helm. “I’ll deal.” 

Prowl shivered with indecision, then leaned into the touch. “You don’t have to ‘deal’,” he said in his monotone voice. “No one ‘just deals’. That’s the _rule.”_

“Right. So what do you normally do with your partners in the morning?” Jazz prodded. 

Like Ricochet had ever done anything like… like all of _this_ with his other partners. “Have sex,” he muttered grumpily. “I like morning sex, especially when no one needs to go anywhere right away. Then we can just lay together afterward. Maybe have more sex.” Ricochet liked sex, okay!

The toy came free in Prowl’s hands. “I can do that.”

Ricochet stopped Prowl from climbing up on to his lap. “I’m not going to frag someone who doesn’t want it.” He’d played at it last night, but that wasn’t who he was. 

“I don’t mind mixing sex and aftercare,” Prowl said softly, evenly. He nuzzled Ricochet’s hand. “I’m not unwilling.” 

Ricochet hesitated. His no-longer-sad morning erection was totally on board with this idea, but he knew better than to let his spike cast the deciding vote. “Are you sure you want this?” And he didn’t just meant having sex, right now. He meant… “I’ll treat you like a fragtoy in a scene, or whenever you want, but outside of that I want… a lover. I _want,”_ he _needed,_ “to be here and help you afterward.” 

Not ignored and shut down.

“Prowl tries to lock people out when he’s feeling vulnerable,” Jazz clarified, petting one of Prowl’s doors. “There are some settings where that might be appropriate, but this isn’t one of them. It’s a bad habit that we’re working on.”

Prowl ducked his head. “He’s right.”

“Well, I’m not going to leave you alone. I’m especially not going to take advantage of you and then leave.” Ignoring his erection, Ricochet finally reached down to draw Prowl up on the couch next to him where he could pull him close, pet him, and finally snuggle. “Did you still think I would?”

“I… maybe?” Prowl leaned against him. His frame jerked as he hiccuped, on the verge of crying again. And Ricochet gently wiped his cheek, waiting for the tears to fall so he could wipe them away too. “It’s not,” Prowl gulped. Ricochet felt the shame flood his EM field. “It’s not humiliating enough to be taken by a lover.”

Was… was… Ricochet tried to wrap his head around that. “You don’t want to sleep and cuddle with me during aftercare because you’re afraid I won’t humiliate you during your little games?” Prowl squeaked. “That…” _was dumb_ probably wasn’t the worst thing Ricochet could say right now, but it was close. “That sounds like a _challenge. **Pet.”**_

“I didn’t mean for it to be!”

“No take backsies,” Ricochet chortled. But Prowl wasn’t crying. Not yet anyway. “Now…You’re going to show me how to please you, not _just_ shame you.” He tugged Prowl up onto his lap so he was straddling his very patient morning wood and drew him into a deep kiss. He was going to kiss every single dent and scratch on Prowl’s body and make sure they were only surface deep. He was going to bury himself in Prowl and listen to him moan in pleasure, not beg him to stop. Then he was going to cuddle him until they were both sick of it.

His _lover;_ not a conveniently Enforcer-shaped target for his revenge fantasies.

“And afterward,” Jazz commented from the sidelines, “we’ll sit down and figure out how Ricochet fits into your routine, Prowl.” 

_Shut up. Busy right now._ Ricochet made a rude gesture at his twin.

.

.

.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! Have a giant holiday helping of porn!


End file.
